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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177689">Trompe L'oeil</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dimlitidiot/pseuds/Dimlitidiot'>Dimlitidiot</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Beholding, College AU, Eventual Smut, Fluffy, Other, Painting, Slow Burn, Watcher, gerry keay is in my art class, nothing is tragic you and gerry just have mommy issues</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:28:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,416</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28177689</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dimlitidiot/pseuds/Dimlitidiot</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerry is in your art class. You know he's watching you, and you can't help looking back. He kind of creeps you out, but you kind of like it. Why are you obsessed with this guy?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay/Reader, gerry keay/reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey so lolol I'm obsessed with Gerry and it's only going to get more self-involved from here SO be prepared for that if you want to read more. I think this first chapter is pretty good but I cannot make promises for the next ones. Tell me what you think/what you like/ideas for what happens next!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He’s in your art class. There’s actually not a lot of people in your art class, maybe seven or eight total. There’s not really anywhere for you to hide, or him for that matter. You have a habit of always turning your Zoom camera on, at least in this class, Painting II, where you actually like your teacher and want to engage with the content. A handful of other students have their cameras on as well, but a few very rarely show their face at all. You know them only by their input in the chat box, and infrequently when they raised their voice during discussion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was one person in class who...</span>
  <em>
    <span>interested</span>
  </em>
  <span> you. His screen name read “Gerry Keay” in the middle of a big black box. The name rings a bell, and you think of the guy you saw a couple times in your sculpture class the previous semester. For some reason, you can’t remember any of the work he did, or ever seeing him after the first day of class as a matter of fact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s the first day of Painting II, which you have with your teacher April, an overly cheerful but generally intelligent artist and mother who you also had for your last painting class. The rectangle named Gerry Keay briefly introduced himself with his microphone, but he seemed hesitant to turn it on when called upon by the teacher. You’re sitting in your home office/studio, at your desk, twiddling your thumbs after you already introduced yourself, and you realize that your body got very still the moment April called on Gerry Keay. The Zoom room was silent for over five seconds, and you thought that perhaps they were shy and were just going to defer to type in the chat. But then you hear a swoosh of fabric, a click, and a deep throat clear through internet static. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahem,” he coughs, jarring you. When his voice starts, it’s low, deep and quiet. “My name is Gerry. I’m a studio arts major with a minor in literature.” You get the feeling that he is quite over all of this class stuff, despite the fact that this was only the first day. “I just kind of paint and draw creepy shit.” He throws the line away, like this was normal and should be accepted easily. You like it. You like creepy shit, and boys who sound smart and mysterious on the other line even if you don’t know what they look like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your teacher carries on, but you’re not really listening anymore, instead daydreaming about the creepy shit that Gerry makes, and the fact that, in theory, you would at least get to see some of it over the course of the class. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, so your first assignment is Trompe L’oeil, which means ‘to fool the eye,” your teacher starts in her chipper voice, rousing you out of your stupor. A sharp laugh cuts through the video, abruptly followed by the sound of a click and the laugh cutting off. Gerry’s screen is lit up, showing that it was him who made the sound. You guess he left his mic on. You wonder what was so funny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Your teacher explains the concept, and tells everyone to paint something extremely realistic to share in critique in two weeks time. You’re excited to start your painting, and you’re really excited to see what everyone else paints, and especially Gerry, you hate to admit. You don’t know why you’re so interested in him. You try to rack your brains to remember what he made last semester, what he looks like, why his name keeps ringing in your head like you’ve heard it a hundred times. And he is just a black box that slowly blinks off the screen quickly at the end of class, probably not thinking of you for more than a few moments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After deep consideration and an interest inventory, you decide to paint the saddest tomatoes you’ve seen, reminding you of how you hate your mom for her thoughtlessness and carelessness toward your interests, in this case, represented in your painstaking gardening. The blue underpainting adds a dark, dreary feeling to the green, unripened cherry tomatoes, pinned hastily to the wall to show parental carelessness. You finish it at the last minute like usual, but you finish it nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You log onto class, expecting the same few faces as normal, but today, everyone actually has their cameras on, you’re sure because of the heartfelt pleas of your teacher for human interaction. And there’s Gerry. Somehow, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>exactly what you expected, maybe you’re just shocked that whatever tickled in your brain about who he was was actually right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s trapped in his little computer box, which seems to make him look both more and less comfortable. It’s really dark in the room that he’s in, and his clothes are so dark that he almost blends in with the background, except for his pale face. His eyes are dark brown, almond shaped, and ringed with black eyeliner. His hair is very dark black. Two long waves of it flood down his shoulders and hang over his chest in an elegant display. His arms and neck are covered by a long black turtleneck. He has a sharp, beaklike nose. His mouth is shaped like the only thing that comes out are quips. You can’t really see anything behind him, from the combination of how dark it is in his location and how wide his shoulders are stretched across the frame. You know he’s just looking at his laptop, but you feel for a second that you know he is looking at </span>
  <em>
    <span>you.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And you feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>watched</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no, you’re sure he’s just looking at your teacher who now seems to be talking, or any of the other people currently bestowing their presence to the class. But for some reason, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was seeing </span>
  <em>
    <span>you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It made your skin crawl, but in a not-completely-negative way. You realize that you’re free to look back at him, and he wouldn’t even know it. There’s no way he could differentiate which part of your laptop screen you’re looking at, let alone what’s on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So you glue your eyes to his little square of darkness, and you watch him for what seems like forever, while you know in your gut that he is looking back at you. You wonder if you should signal to him or something--do a little funny handwave that no one else would notice--but you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>that he would see it, because you</span>
  <em>
    <span> know</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’s focused on your square without moving his eyes away. His expression is unreadable, but he is decidedly not amused by anything being said by the rest of the class. You begrudgingly tear your eyes away from him when the screen is suddenly taken over by a classmate’s painting. You guess that you were starting to critique. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shook the feeling of being watched, and refused to dig his little Zoom square from wherever he was hidden, instead focusing on the artwork of your peers. You always loved seeing others’ work, and in such a small and advanced class, everyone’s work definitely had something to say. You make mental judgements about which ones you like and which ones you hate and which ones you wish were just a little more thoughtful. You give meaningful input on each person’s work, hoping that they will extend the same courtesy to you. Gerry types into the chat, mostly giving small and vaguely helpful critiques. He didn’t sound like he cared much, but maybe he wanted others to know his opinion, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You go third, because you don’t have a problem speaking up when everyone is silent upon your teacher’s inquisition. You share your screen of tomatoes and wait for everyone to speak. You like to remain silent at first in order to see how people feel about the work without your artist’s statement. They always pick up on more than you expect from them. You are curious though, and you click the button that brings the faces of all of your classmates back so you can see what all of their faces look like when they see your work. You also see Gerry, and you know he’s looking at your work, because he’s looking at his screen and your artwork is covering the entire damn thing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, they’re so realistic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve really got the roundness of the fruit down.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your drop shadows are so intricate, they make it look so naturalistic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After that, you hear a different voice from your speakers that you hadn’t heard yet today. It’s Gerry. He’s leaned slightly forward in his chair, his face glowing a bit brighter in the darkness from the spotlight of his computer screen. He was peering at the screen with his eyes squinted like he was trying to see your picture better, making you blush a little under the scrutiny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The subject matter is a bit sad. The tomatoes are green, they’ve been cut too early. They don’t even stand a chance anymore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smile inadvertently at his comment, though there is a little sad tweak to it. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> what you were trying to say. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>you. For a quiet moment, you stare at him with your little smile, and then he smiles back. And wow, it was not really the smile you were expecting, because it’s huge, and it lights up his face, and he lolls his head and his long hair to the side, leaning onto his hand. His eyes are crinkled with a little mischievous mirth, and your body goes SO red. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>April eventually speaks up about your work, breaking you out of your little one on one stare session with the goth boy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do think it looks really good, I can see the layers of paint that you built up. I would say you can bump that contrast up just a little bit more to really push the naturalism. Did you want to talk about your piece a little bit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel a lot of eyes on you then, and you stumble out a few words to describe what was once a long, thought out idea about relationships and trust and boundaries and hating your mom. You think about what Gerry’s face might look like right now, but you honestly can’t make yourself look, instead quickly exiting your screen share and staring at your lap. You feel good to have made the piece and to have shared it, knowing it looked pretty good and that it meant something to you. You maybe peek at Gerry’s screen to see that he is peering intently at the lower corner of his monitor, and his arms seem to be moving a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, a private chat comes through the instant messenger with Gerry’s name on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gerry Keay: And here I thought I was the only one who painted about their mommy issues</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Your eyes widen. You’re so surprised for him to have said something about your painting in the first place, and now here he was starting up a private conversation. Maybe he wasn’t as shy as you thought he was. You rack your brain frantically for how to respond. Mommy issues?? He was being pretty candid with you, but you’re afraid if you reply too freely you might say something he finds weird. You guess he’s been staring at you for the better part of an hour though, so maybe you knew he was definitely weird already. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y/N: Oh man, just you wait, this is only the tip of the very large and deeply buried trauma iceberg</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You press send and watch his eyes flash to a corner of his screen, supposedly where his chat window is. He smiles a little, and starts moving again, typing on his keyboard. Before anything sends though, April says cheerily, “Gerry, do you want to go next?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The confident Gerry that you were looking at a second ago falters for a second under the scrutiny of the room, but he quickly leans back in his chair and composes himself. He turns on his microphone and says somewhat drearily, “Sure.” His eyes flick around his screen for a minute, and then the screen flashes to an image. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You jump without meaning to. It’s a big, hyper-realistic eye. It’s shaped like Gerry’s eye, a perfect almond, but this one is blue. You can see the pores of the eyelid, each long curled eyelash, every sickeningly red vein in view. It looks like it's set into a wall, meant to have the illusion that it was peering out of dark and grimy wallpaper. You can’t decide what expression the eye is trying to show, whether it’s afraid of you or if it’s just watching you, unblinking. Gerry stares stoically at the screen, maddeningly not saying a word. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several students express amazement at the incredible naturalism that he achieved. They were right. You thought it even looked better than yours, though the thought makes you incredibly embarrassed and a little jealous. You find yourself unusually quiet, despite the fact that you had something to say about everyone else’s paintings. The painting made you feel… uncomfortable. There’s no life in the eye. Sure, it looked like it very well might be sitting in a human head, but it might as well be made of glass for all of the warmth it gives to you. You can’t help but feel incredibly watched, and not in the semi-pleasant way Gerry made you feel watched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a deep breath and decide you can send him a private chat message. Then you wouldn’t have to worry if your voice cracked from your discomfort. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y/N: This makes me feel… so uncomfortable (which I’m hoping is your point and I’m not offending you). The way the eye takes up almost the whole canvas… it’s like there’s nowhere I can escape it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerry’s eyes flick to his message corner, but he doesn’t move to reply. April is telling him that the contrast is great in his work, he definitely used enough black (if not </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>much). She continues, “I’m curious what it means though, why this eye is confronting the viewer like this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerry looks into the distance for a second, seemingly thinking about what to say in response. Then he says, “It’s funny, it really takes the power away from the viewer. They think that they’ll be looking at some artwork, but it’s actually looking at them. To suddenly feel watched amidst their own voyeuristic exploits. It makes people uncomfortable, to feel like someone is watching them. They can’t escape the Watcher’s Gaze just by trying to be a watcher.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You shudder, suddenly cold in your warm room. Gerry affirmed the feelings you sent him about his piece and more. The last thing he said... About the “Watcher’s Gaze”... what did that mean, and why did it make the hairs on your neck stand up straight?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerry was the last to share his project, and shortly after people began to file out of the online room. But… Gerry stayed where he was. Again, you had no proof where he was looking on his screen, but you got the distinct impression he was staring at you again. Everyone else slowly filed out of the room, until it was just the two of you, watching each other. Now you </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> it was you he was staring at, because there was no one else left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” he says, breaking you out of your thoughts abruptly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” you say back, a little breathless and really on the brink of blushing for no reason except the threat of social interaction. “Gerry,” you add quietly. You wanted to see how it tasted in your mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Y/N,” he muses back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I loved your piece,” you blurt out. You’re nervous, and you feel itchy from the way he’s looking at you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you like about it?” He asks calmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” you start, but you falter when you realize that you didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> like the painting completely, on account of how much it scared you. “The craftsmanship is amazing. You must have spent a lot of time on it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It did take a lot of hours. But only a few days. It wouldn’t stop looking at me until I finished it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it not looking at you anymore?” you ask, half joking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh it’s definitely still looking at me. But that’s nothing new. Right, Y/N? You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wanted to say yes, that you did understand what he meant. And… you kind of feel like you understood a little? Especially when you feel him watching your video play on his laptop. And when the giant eyeball popped on your screen, and you knew it would look at you until the second it left your view. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… don’t think I do.” You play stupid, because you’re a little scared and you don’t know if you want Gerry to talk about this anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, sure,” he says, chuckling. “Anyway, I’ll be seeing you.” He makes a little wave and then suddenly, you’re alone in your room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And you know that it’s crazy, but somehow, you feel like Gerry, or maybe even something else, is still watching you. You shut your laptop quickly, and push it away from you, and try to shake the feeling that nothing you’re doing is private anymore. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You share a revealing painting with Gerry and he compliments you. His artwork becomes even darker, if possible. You're drawn to his darkness, but you're beginning to think his runs much deeper than yours.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You didn’t hear much from Gerry in the following weeks. Your teacher announced your next project, which required using color symbolically in your piece. You wrestled around with your topic for a while, but eventually settled on the idea of you as Narcissus from Greek myth, staring at your reflection in the water. You made yourself pink, small and precious among the dense, green, blooming foliage. It’s about how you find yourself moderately selfish, always looking at your own trauma, turning it over in your head and creating artwork that only focuses on your own experiences. But if that’s what you want, why not? You’ll paint yourself naked, mesmerized by your own reflection, if that’s how you feel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’ve been having a harder time at home lately. You’re feeling particularly depressed as the weather gets colder, and the pressure of completing intellectual school assignments has been wearing on you. If possible, the completion of this painting was even more down to the wire than the last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not until you sign onto class for your next critique that you start to feel a little nervous about your subject matter. Mostly because you realize that Gerry is going to be looking at it. Yes, you fully believe being naked is not shameful, especially in self-reflective and critical work of art like yours, but it’s quite an </span>
  <em>
    <span>exposure</span>
  </em>
  <span> in front of Gerry, who clearly has some kind of interest in watching you during these times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You decide to present first today so you can just stop worrying about it. Once again, April has convinced everyone in class to turn their cameras on, meaning that many sets of eyes fall onto your painting when you display it for the class, including Gerry’s indecipherable gaze. Your classmates comment on it approvingly, slightly quiet from class having started so recently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, you are seriously just like a renaissance painter, you need to stop!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love the complimentary color palette.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You just look so free, so sure of yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last comment digs at you the wrong way slightly, receiving the, “Wow, it’s so brave for you to be confident when you look like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” vibe. You decide to let it go, not interested in bothering with an argument. Gerry’s quiet, but he has been looking at his screen the whole time, and you track his eyes while they move around the piece. You wish you could tell what he was thinking, but it didn’t seem like he had anything to say about your piece today. You hate that you’re kind of waiting to hear what he thinks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he did have something to say though, as you see a chat appears on your screen, once again privately sent to you from Gerry.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gerry Keay: Somehow this painting feels similar to your first. They both show me how delicate you are, even though the stories they tell are ones of trauma and growth. You look so precious in your earth cocoon, like I could hold you in the palm of my hand. You’re a stunning person. I love watching what you come up with.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You blush maddeningly, your face heating up a little bit more with each sentence you read. His candidness and even his strangeness is incredibly endearing, both traits being things you value in yourself. You didn’t think that anyone in your class would connect with your work this deeply. He seems to know exactly what you felt as you made your art. His compliments make you feel fuzzy. You feel seen in a way that is overwhelmingly intimate, something you don’t often experience. And when he brought up the idea of holding you in his hand… well, you couldn’t help but imagine him fitting as much of you as he could in his big hands. You try to think quickly about what to say back to him, but you’re having a hard time thinking of anything that’s not wildly overexposing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, you just look at him in his box for a moment. By this point, everyone else in the class has moved on, and you unfortunately can’t find the interest to comment on your peers’ artwork. You enter your own little world again, where you and Gerry are surrounded by digital peers but you both only have eyes for each other. You don’t know when exactly you started to feel comfortable under his watching eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y/N: It seems like you understand me pretty well, despite the fact you barely know me. I have to assume it’s because you’re maybe the same as me a bit?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You think about how much of your daydreaming you intend to share with this near stranger. You think about your painting, how you watched his eyes trace the curve of your hanging breasts, your stomach, your thighs… and then he called you stunning. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y/N: Thanks for just saying stunning, and not saying “stunning despite the fact that you are fat and queer-looking”. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Y/N: I’d like to say you’re stunning too, at least what I’ve seen of you. Which is mostly just your gorgeous hair with a little face underneath. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You watch his eyes flash with acknowledgement, one, two, three times, one with each message you sent him. He smiles a little sadly, then chuckles, then you swear you see a pink blush spread over his pale face.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gerry Keay: Something tells me we’re more alike than you think. And I just so happen to find you stunning </span>
  </em>
  <span>because</span>
  <em>
    <span> you’re fat and queer. AND my hair appreciates the compliment.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Time must have passed quickly while you were giggling, because soon April is once again calling for Gerry to share his work. You almost forgot that you would get to see another painting of his. You suddenly remember what happened last critique, and you cringe in preparation for the image he is about to show. You even close your eyes for a second to prepare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When you open your eyes, your screen is covered by dark, vertical lines. You realize that you’re seeing the pages of a book, slightly opened, the pages aged considerably. Dripping down the dark, wavering pages is red blood, some of it dark and dried, some of it fresh and bright. You can't quite make out what is on the pages of the book, but you think you see the edges of words and… is that an eye?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You feel your blood run dark and cold through your body. The contrast of the lifelike, vividly red blood on the dark book makes you feel afraid. It makes your blood race. It makes you feel hunted, threatened, and ominous. You try to think about what it means, what Gerry was trying to say with the colors he used. Red can have positive connotations, like passion and love, but this piece seemed distinctly devoid of those, unless they were mourning the loss of them. The dark black color reinforces themes of mourning and death. The blood is so realistic, you feel like you can see it dripping down the harsh lines the pages cut across the canvas. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You wonder what Gerry will say about it. There’s a bit of tense quiet in the room before someone pipes up about how they love the naturalism, and then others begin to share how unnerved it makes them feel, and sad. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Gerry says after a beat of silence. You’re raptly paying attention to his face, ever so curious about what he’s going to say, but not overly hoping that you’re going to get a straight answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dad died when I was really young. My mom killed him, actually. He was always around books, always sticking his nose into places they didn’t belong, looking for something. My mom was the same way. She actually died last year, although she was… ill, for a long time before that. I know books haven’t always been hostile, but I can’t look at one lately without seeing death on all the pages.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerry looks like he isn’t incredibly emotionally stirred by his own monologue, but his voice is quiet and his lips are flattened into a line. You give him a reassuring smile that you’re not sure he sees. You were surprised that he shared such personal information. You keep mistaking him for someone shy and reserved, but he doesn’t seem to have a problem speaking his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>April thanks Gerry for sharing and then people slowly begin to file out of the room. You indulge in the fantasy for a moment that you and Gerry will talk again at the end of class, alone, but Gerry leaves faster than anyone else. You ignore the pang of disappointment you feel as you leave the room a few moments after. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You ponder Gerry’s sadness for a few minutes. You try to imagine having a past as dark as his looks to be. You decide you don’t really want to think about it for very long. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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